Sky Blue Buttons
by Thunderstorm Kick Drum
Summary: Angels are slaves. Angels have no rights. Angels are below us. Blaine knows this, but he can't help but pray that that gorgeous man up on the auction stage didn't have to live the life he does. He doesn't deserve this. Features klaine and Angel!Kurt.
1. Chapter 1

That's the only good thing about being abnormal. You learn how to deal.

_They've caught another one, folks! Another angel, being sold at the Cincinnati auction! Tune in later for the start of the bidd- _

The TV's screen abruptly went black. A man had just walked into his living room after a long day at work, his scruffy shoes still on and leaving dusty imprints in the carpet. The television's remote was clutched in his trembling fist, the buttons leaving round imprints in his skin. For once, his baseball cap was off, on the ground at his feet. He was currently gazing into his family room with a horrified expression on his face.

"-ing, the prices are going to be high on his one, ladies and gentlemen! I can assure you, this one was in top physical condition! Great for all purposes!" The boy on the couch murmured, his tiny arms wrapped around bare legs. His head rested against his knees at an impossible angle, his temple flush with the rough skin of his kneecap. Tears rolled from brilliant blue eyes, which were locked on the screen of the television, despite the fact that no pictures rolled across it. He was naked, with blood smeared across his hands and feet, scratches on his arms and legs. His eyes closed when he finished talking, his eyelashes pushing the persistent tears that clutched at his lower lid to slide down his cheeks and onto his palm, which he opened and closed slowly. The man, Burt Hummel, walked cautiously into the room and laid his hand on the boy's shoulder, his eyes taking in the over-turned furniture and cracked door. Bloody footprints, of both small sizes and large, dotted the tile and carpet, streaks of red where the running legs had obviously slipped. Dirt was all over the ground, broken china and strewn papers covering the small piles in certain places, while in others there was nothing to block the streams of A negative and B positive from blending into a sick, sadistic imitation of mud. The boy was cold beneath his hand, which slowly made it's way down the forearm.

"Kurt? W-What happened?" Burt asked, crouching in front of the boy, who was curled up on a pile of loose couch stuffing. The boy's eyes did not move, as if Burt had not just moved in front of the TV. There was a slight sheen over his pupils, which were so large it was hard to see the pupils. The room was dark, due to the single light bulb hanging over their head, the other bulbs blown and cracked on the back of the chair and collecting at the base of the fireplace. Burt shook the child again, who could have been no older than seven.

"There is a down-side; this one was taken out of suburban living, out of a wedded life. Not a virgin, but still more than capable. The price has been marked down slightly due to this factor. The bidding starts at 9,000! Can I get 9,000?" The boy continued, his lips moving flawlessly around the disgusting words that formed from them. The small body was starting the shake, the teeth chattering. His skin was ice cold, the only heat on his skin being the slick red that dripped from his hands.

"Kurt, bud, you have to tell me; what happened here-"

"I'm so sorry, Momma," the boy-Kurt-whispered, his high voice breaking with each word. The tears began to flow faster. "I couldn't protect you. This is my entire fault, Mommy, please, don't leave me… don't go….. give her back….." He broke off with a sob, his face burying in his knees. Burt Hummel stopped breathing.

Of course. That's why the house was in this condition.

He knew he shouldn't have left Elizabeth home alone with Kurt! He knew it! But she had been so persistent in him continuing work, he just couldn't argue with her! He remembered her calm exterior when the Angelic Rights bill was revoked, how she had promised that it wouldn't happen to her. Why would it? Who would suspect the mechanic's wife in such a dead-beat town like Lima? Burt began to cry as well, taking his son into his arms, the small body quivering like a leaf in a hurricane.

"It's not your fault, Kurt…. It's not you, buddy…. It's this god damn cruel ass world we live in…." Burt truly didn't know who he was trying to convince, his son or himself. Kurt continued to cry silently, his eyes devoid of emotion. Burt ran his hands down his son's back, crying harder when his fingertips hit a wall of the softest down.

"Thank you, God…. I don't know what I would've done if they'd taken Kurt, too…." Burt continued to mumble to himself, his fingers clenching white-knuckle before pulling back, to examine the molted white feathers that fell from his fingers. The small pillow-stuffing feathers fell down to the floor slowly, landing in a puddle of red. The shiny surface showed Burt, and his face sitting on his son's tiny shoulders, with wet cheeks and parted lips.

It also showed the white mass on his son's back, the extra appendages fluttering softly as the boy they were attached to's heart broke for his Momma.

Blaine Anderson really didn't want to go home.

There was a reason why he chose to board. He would never tell the other guys at Dalton, but that extravagant house they were jealous of was one of the coldest places he'd ever been to. He couldn't live with the guilt of knowing that the person who cleaned his room, or the person who made the meal his mother claimed to have made from scratch was beaten and tortured every day. He couldn't stand to come out of his room in the morning and hear the whimpers of pain in the basement beneath him.

Blaine Anderson won't pretend to understand how his parents think doing those things to the angels is humane.

Most people thought that about the Seraphines now a days. Angels used to be highly regarded as messengers of God, but that was not so now. Now, Angels were used as slaves, letting the rich mommies and daddies go out and get hopelessly wasted, knowing soundly that the Angels would have everything done for them when they got home.

In fact, Blaine was raised by an angel.

His mother didn't have a maternal bone in her body, and that was a fact. So, instead of having to, perhaps, _learn_ how to care for her child, she bought an Angel to do the work for her. Jasmine, the doe-eyed 13 year old they assigned the job to, was more of a mom than Kelly Anderson ever could be. Jasmine would rock him to sleep when he had a nightmare, and would stay up all night feeding him as an infant. Blaine relied on Jasmine to be that nurturer that he never had. Jasmine, who sang Disney when doing the dishes and always smelled like leather and burnt popcorn. Jasmine, who simply smiled at him when he wanted to watch The Little Mermaid instead of the Power Rangers like the other boys.

Blaine didn't want to go home if Jasmine wasn't there.

When he was seven, Mother and Father had thrown a huge, lavish party, with all of their friends. Mother's frenemy (because there is no such thing as friends when you're rich) Laura Tremblott had a son his age, and Mother wanted to show Blaine off to her rival. He was to sit on her lap all night while the women cooed over how cute he was, in his little tux with the blue buttons. The blue buttons that Jasmine loved so much, as she watched the sky-colored trinkets with a longing look while she buttoned up his waist coat. She'd complained about how his mother wanted to hide his curly hair, and had told him that he should tell her to try to run a comb through his hair and not come out with a snarl. Blaine had laughed and rested his head against her chest as she hugged him before his mother came and got him, ignoring Jasmine, whose eyes were lowered to the floor, her dirty feathers resting against the wood. When mother wasn't looking, Blaine waved at Jasmine, who simply shook her head at him and shooed him out.

Blaine had started to get antsy, as all little boys do after a while. Quietly, he asked Mother if he could go play with Preston and Lucas, the other two boys at the party. Mother, not wanting to look bad in front of her friends, had told him not the mess up his suit and pushed him towards the swings. They boys then soon after started a Who-Can-Swing-The-Highest contest, and Blaine was determined to win. He swung higher than all of the other boys, not noticing his sweaty fingers slipping until he began to plummet to the ground. Letting out a yelp, he landed on his left side, his arm taking most of the impact. He heard the crunching noise and began to sob uncontrollably as a shot of unbearable pain ran up his shoulder. Mother looked appropriately horrified, her hand over her mouth and calling out to Father, who stood around the grill with his friends. Father just laughed and told him to suck it up and be a man. Blaine was not a man yet, though, and felt no embarrassment as he continued to cry.

Jasmine, upon hearing her charge's wails, came running down the stairs and out the back sliding door, crouching next to Blaine and hushing him as she carefully looked over his arm. She tore a sleeve off of her dress and tied it around his shoulder, then lifted him into her lap and told him it was okay. Blaine buried his face in her chest and sobbed, his fingers clutching her arms.

"Why do you let that _thing_ hold your child, Kelly? Step in and do something!" One of the women tutted, wagging a finger at Jasmine. Kelly's eyes hardened, and, not wanting to look bad, stood elegantly and walked over to the hiccupping young boy and the Angel.

"You! What makes you think you have the right to hold my son?" Kelly exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at Jasmine. Jasmine lowered her eyes, one hand still rubbing Blaine's back.

"Mistress, I was just-"

"I know what you were doing! You were trying to work you abnormal ways on my child!" Kelly pulled Blaine out of Jasmine's arms, whose eyes widened as she stood to protest. "You dare think you can so much as look at me! After what you did to my child! Out, you mongrel! Get out of my house!"

"What? Mother, you can't!" Blaine cried, forgetting for a moment that his arm was so clearly broken. Kelly ignored her son, instead choosing to glare at Jasmine, who had started to cry.

"Out! Get out of my sight! Pack your bags, you're being sold tomorrow!"

The next day, four x-rays and a blue cast later, Blaine was standing at the window, waiting for Jasmine to come up from the basement. Mother was talking on the phone with her friend in the kitchen, saying "Oh, it was so horrible! You should've seen the way it touched him! That will show that beast not to defile my son!" Blaine was purposely tuning it out, his brain ringing in his ears. Mr. Anderson was out in the car, waiting to drive Jasmine to the auction holding cells.

"Jasmine, please! You can't go!" Blaine exclaimed, his arms wrapping around Jasmine's knees as soon as she set her bags down. Jasmine's eyes looked tired as she crouched down to the little boy's level, which was just barely to the middle of her thigh.

"I've got to, Baby. You know that I'll always be your Momma though, right? That evil witch isn't going to come close to what you and I've got." Jasmine brushed Blaine's crazy curly hair off of his forehead, his little mouth hiccupping and his glorious hazel eyes filling with tears. "You've got such gorgeous eyes, sweetie. Love them, because they're yours; not your mothers, not your father's, _yours. _That's one of the three things they can never take from you. They can never take your eyes, your heart, or your voice. Remember that."

"But you aren't going to go! I won't let you! You can stay in my tree house, out in the back yard!" Blaine offered, his logic sounding perfectly reasonable to his ears. Jasmine's eyes filled with tears as she took in the only thing she has ever loved, her son, as she would forever think of him. Blaine wasn't Kelly Anderson's son, he was Jasmine's. Jasmine was his momma, she was the one who loved him. She knew, and he knew, too, that Kelly barely tolerated her son. Wincing, Jasmine pulled out one of her pinfeathers from her wing and handed it to him, curly the fingers of his good hand around it and patting his knuckles.

"This is yours, sweetie. My heart has always and will always belong to you, okay? Don't let anyone try to dictate who you are. You'll always be my boy, okay?" Blaine nodded sadly, before digging into the pocket of his pants and handing the object to a surprised looking Jasmine. Inside the middle of her palm sat one of those baby blue buttons she loved so much.

"And you'll always be my Momma, Jasmine. Please don't forget me here on the ground, because you deserve the sky." Blaine sounded too wise as he told her this, his face looking ten years older than it actually was. Jasmine began to cry harder, throwing her arms around the little boy quickly before she rose to her feet, twitching her fingers in a silent goodbye at the child still sitting on the ground, looking up at her longingly as she walked swiftly out the door, knowing if she paused she'd run back to him and never be able to leave. Wiping her tears away quickly, she climbed into the passenger seat of Mr. Anderson's care and he began to drive off, keeping her eyes away from the window, knowing what she would see if she looked. She could feel the photo of a baby Blaine and the blue button burning a hole in the breast pocket of her dress as she started to cry again, her face turned towards the sky.

That was the first and last time Blaine would ever call her Momma.

Well, to her face, at least, Blaine thought bitterly, pacing around the Dalton common room. Wes and David had already left for the weekend, leaving Blaine at Dalton with the few underclassmen who stayed here as well. No other Warbler boarded, for which Blaine was thankful at the moment.

To Blaine, the angels were just people. There was nothing different about them besides their wings, which Blaine remembers as being soft and white, when they were granted to luxury of a shower. This opinion, of course, was not shared by many, and so he didn't vocalize it. Ten years have passed since he allowed himself to get close to an Angel, because in the end, they always leave you. Vincent, their cooking angel, was fired a year after Jasmine, and Norah, Mother's maid, two after him. Blaine doesn't come home enough to know what angels were hired now.

The angels accepted him. That's what he loved them and respected them so. Angels had enough problems in their life to care that he was a more socially acceptable freak of nature.

An abomination, his parents had called him.

Jasmine hadn't cared when Blaine told her he liked boys the way the other boys liked girls.

Jasmine hadn't cared.

**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any references to anything that may occur in this story. **

** Thank you for reading and please favorite, comment, and review.**

** ~Elsie Lucas (Goldenmiracles1914)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Holy… huminahuminahumina. Over 90 story alerts? NINETY? Holy crap!**

** Thank you so much!**

** Warnings for this chapter: Teenage angst. Language.**

** I apologize that this chapter is all Kurt. It will be mostly all Blaine next chapter, once some backstories are done.**

Life sucks ass when you can't see.

He liked to think that just because he couldn't use his eyes didn't mean he couldn't experience life. Like, he can still hear and feel, right? So life must not be that bad?

Wrong.

He stopped trying to kid himself when he turned thirteen; he had nothing to live for. A missing mom, a dad he left, having to run from the government and live in a crappy little trailer in the middle of the woods with no contact from the outside world. Add to that the fact that he gets death threats every day at a consistent pace, and you don't even have the low-down on _half _of his problems. His two huge problems are linked together and chained to every other shitty thing that's ever happened to him.

He's blind, and he has wings.

Kurt Hummel quite honestly couldn't remember the last time he woke up feeling safe. If he had to be honest, it was really never. Ever since his mom was kidnapped, he's never felt at ease in his own skin. It felt like there were maggots crawling beneath his skin, feasting on bones and sloshing through pools of blood. Kristy would kill him if he ever said that out loud, especially around the children, but it was true. He couldn't sit still, couldn't stop moving. Always moving.

Always running.

Sighing, Kurt felt around on the side of his bed for the small bundle of cloth on his side table. Carefully, his fingers slid the two pieces of fabric away from one another and ran a thumb over the details.

"Bianca, is this sock inside out?" Kurt asked, turning his face in the direction of the noise he heard coming from the kitchen. A soft padding followed his words, and then the sound of someone wiping their hands on a dish towel.

"Yeah. The one in your right hand's fine, though," A female voice replied. Kurt sighed exasperatedly at the girl.

"B, remember; your right is my left. You have to be careful with that." Kurt could practically hear Bianca's blush.

"Oh, right. I'm sorry, Kurt."

"It's fine; no harm done. If I had walked out of the house with a sock inside out, though, you would've been in a knee-high pile of dog shit, girl," Kurt joked, continuing to pull the socks onto his pale feet. The rule of the house was quite simple; only give Kurt white socks. Heaven knows what it'd be like with him worrying over if the socks matched along with bugging people if they were right side out. He was already touchy enough about the situation with his sight. Kurt sighed longingly just thinking about it.

He wasn't always blind. On the contrary; his sight was taken from him, a little while back.

He was nine when it happened. He was sitting in the basement, trying to ignore his father's fists pounding against the door. They'd just got into another argument about Mom. Kurt was insistent that Elizabeth Hummel was dead, while Burt was saying that she's fine and safe. Kurt honestly didn't know who he was trying to convince, Kurt or himself. He raced off to his room, hiding in the bottom of his closet, wrapped up in his mother's comforter. Burt had always wondered what became of the piece of fabric, but had never bothered to check his son's room. After all, why would Kurt have it? A boy would never take a blanket.

Oh, but he had. Kurt had also stolen Elizabeth's three-fourths full bottle of perfume from her desk, taking the items and putting them in the back corner of his freakishly depthy closet. The blanket had become a nest of sorts, and every night, when Kurt was positive his father wouldn't risk coming into his son's room to check if he was asleep, he crawled on his knees to his closet and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. He didn't cry; not anymore. He'd just lock his door, crawl underneath the worn quilt covered in coffee stains and sleep. Once a week he'd spray the tiniest drop of her perfume onto the fabric so that when he closed his eyes, he could still imagine his mother's arms wrapped around him.

He will be the first to admit that he blamed himself fully for her capture. Nothing infuriated him more than his dad telling him _you didn't do it, Kurt. There wasn't anything you could've done._ Yeah, right. And he thinks skin care is stupid and has a picture of a horse's ass on his desk.

Kurt could've seen it. But he didn't. And he would never forgive himself for that.

That was why he took away his own eyesight.

"Common', Mr. Mopey Pants. Clare's got some cinnamon rolls outside! Can you believe it? Real cinnamon rolls!" Kurt could hear Bianca bouncing up and down on the fake wood of the trailer floor. The whole home began to rock, and Kurt gripped the door to the shower in an effort not to fall on his face, knuckles white.

"Bianca! S-stop! Please!" Kurt begged, beginning to feel his knees shake. His wings twitched on his back, aching to catch him if there was even a chance of him falling. Kristy was very strict about the No-Wings-In-The-Trailer rule, though, so, in short, he was SOL.

"Oh! Sorry, Kurt!" Bianca apologized again, and Kurt could just imagine her, flustered and twiddling her fingers. Claire, second eldest after Kurt, had described each of his "family" in full detail for him, so he could at least have a picture in his head. Bianca, Claire had told, was a crazy little redhead with way too many freckles, unruly hair, and a height problem. Basically, the thirteen year old was screwed to forever be clumsy, awkward, and short. Always short.

Kurt had told his surrogate family many times not to rock the trailer, but did they listen? Of course not.

Sighing, Kurt pulled on a robe (he was positive this one was his, because of it's silky fabric, so he was also positive it was nice, generic black. And right-side out. That's always good, too.) and continued to walk out of the trailer, his motions easy, fluid, and practiced. His fingers brushed Bianca's arm (or, at least, he hoped it was) as he padded out the kitchen and through the front door. Reaching out, he felt for a pair of his shoes on the bottom step (because duh, who wants dirty socks?), and sat on the top step as he slowly laced them up. Although he loved fashion, he really didn't see the point of getting dressed up when there was absolutely no one to impress; only the other members of the Seraphine Commune of Ohio.

Or, at least, that's what they preferred to call it. It was a fancy term used to try to convince the small children that what they were doing and where they were living wasn't illegal. Of course, hiding out from the government on a private funder's land in trailers and tents didn't necessarily spell permissible anyways.

The Commune was established ten years ago, when Angelic rights were first revoked. The people were going crazy, chaining their neighbors and people at the supermarket and taking them home as slaves. Every angel they caught was taken to the Bureau immediately to be bar-coded and tagged into their system, so once they were caught, there was no turning back. A man by the name of Preston LeVae and his wife, Sofie, were a rich couple who lived in the woods of Ohio, away from any neighbors or much current news, so word didn't hit them fast. Sofie's father was an angel, and in her worry for him, convinced her husband to purchase him a small trailer and let him hide out in their over 150 acres of land. The man and his wife quickly made haste to set up camp, but not before word got around to a few other angels.

The Commune was an angelic safe haven. A medium sized camp was set up, far from any people, where almost 400 angels lived in peace. All taken from extreme circumstances, and each without a place to live. Many of the first members were young children, with a few adults and mothers to watch over them. It was one of the most prestigious places in Ohio for the angelic community, and always the last resort for desperate parents in hopes of their children's well-being and safety.

Kurt was one of those children, dropped off by a worried parent. Of course, the last thing an eight year old Kurt wanted was to leave his father, but it was a must. Burt Hummel was fully aware that no humans, even trusted humans, were allowed onto Commune grounds, and once a child was brought in, the odds of you seeing them again were very minimal. Even though he knew it was Burt trying to keep him safe, Kurt couldn't help but resent him a bit for just leaving him there, on his own.

_"Kurt, Scooter, please don't argue with me. Just go. This is the only way I can be positive you're safe, which you aren't with me. I love you, Bud, but this is what's best."_ No, Kurt didn't want to be told what was best for him. What was obviously the most logical to his eight year old mind was to stay with his father, and so he had pitched a fit. With tears in his eyes, Burt had pried his son's fingers from his shirt, kissed his forehead, and walked back to his car. Kurt couldn't remember much after that, except for the comforting hand of Preston LeVae on his shoulder, the soft blouse of Sofie LeVae's shirt as she lifted him into her arms, and the horrible feeling of neglect. No, _betrayal. _In it's worst form, Kurt could feel it nestle into his heart like a baby bird seeking warmth, then harden like molten led. He had no one now.

But that wasn't true. As soon as he was introduced to the Commune at their monthly meetings, after four days with Preston and Sofie at their house, he was quickly adopted into the surrogate family of Ms. Kristy Daoughrty. A lithe, petite woman the age of twenty eight, Kurt was taken to Kristy's trailer as the first of her adopted children. Later on would come Claire, who came from a home of poverty, brought when eleven and a year younger than Kurt. Malcolm, the son of a college history professor, seven when brought in and almost nine years younger than Kurt came next, and lastly Bianca, a rich broker's daughter and eleven when brought in, only two years back. Kurt considered himself a veteran, having been living here for almost ten years now. At the age of seventeen, it's gone from prison cell to home.

That doesn't mean the two don't even overlap, though.

The camp was about the size of a small subdivision, littered with trailers, tents, hollowed-out vans and shanty houses. It could be easily mistaken for an old-time gypsy homestead, which was quite honestly the best way to describe it, if asked. It was back to the drawing board in terms of technology for the Commune, with huge bins of water to wash laundry and do dishes, and fires being the most efficient cooking method. Once a month Mr. and Mrs. LeVae would arrive to discuss problems and bring supplies such as batteries, candles, lighter fluid, dish soap, shampoo, and clothing. There wasn't even plumbing for toilets, as there was no way the angels would risk having a plumber come out and do that sort of thing. A general rule at the camp was if you can hear the people at the edge of the Commune, don't relieve yourself. Hold it until you're farther out.

The whole camp smelled like smoke and body odor, which, though not pleasant, was a general norm with how close the homes were. Almost every structure was pressed against another, and even if they weren't, there would be laundry line after laundry line connecting the two. Colorful articles of clothing hung from the lines almost always, with fires littering most open spaces that could be seen. The homes were precariously settled in ways like a maze, where some houses would be in rows, some circles, and come almost streets, with a huge aisle of campfires between fronts of houses and a rounded cul-de-sac towards the end. Every building arrangement housed at least three angels, with a child in each. No children went without at least one adult to supervise, but the number of children in one household had no limit. The largest family was the family of Nessie Pritz, who was surrogate mother to twenty three children. All of the tents required to host that many children were ripped apart and sewn back together again by all of the capable women of the Commune, and it took almost four months to create to home for Ms. Pritz's large family. In the end, the place looked like the love child of a deformed sandcastle created by two year olds and an old patchwork quilt, with the many different levels the "ceiling" (quotations necessary) and the many different colors of the original tents together. Kurt's trailer was one of few, and right down a street-like structure placement from the Pritz home.

The fires roared loudly all around, and Kurt smiled at the smell of burning hickory. If you were a vegetarian when brought into the Commune, there was absolutely no way you'd stay that way. Kurt felt around the picnic table at the front of his home for the pile of laundry always dropped off at their door, running his thumb over one of the articles of clothing before determining it was a large boy's hoodie and discarding his robe onto a hook as he pulled the sweater over his head. Kurt's family was the only one whose laundry was done for them by another house, as Kristy was in charge of a small daycare system they had set up a few rows back from them and there was no way she could do it with her busy schedule. Claire was in charge of the gardens, Malcolm had home school classes in the early hours, and Bianca was in charge of Kurt in the mornings, to make sure he didn't kill himself trying to get ready. Kurt personally had told Mrs. Nowling, the woman next door who insisted on doing the family's laundry for them, many times that he didn't mind laundry, but Mrs. Nowling was insistent. Her husband Richard was a fisher down at the river and she was at home with her new baby, as they had run low on baby formula and therefore had to breastfeed baby Nina. In exchange for doing their laundry, Kurt would watch Nina and make sure she didn't wander when her mother did the cooking for their family. It was very rare for a baby to be _born_ in the Commune, as not a lot of men and women actually had enough time to... uh, _procreate_. Nina was one of few, and Kurt adored her with all of his heart.

"Come 'er, baby Nina!" Kurt stage whispered, walking over to the tent next door and lifting the flap to greet a gurgling Nina from where she lay on a pile of blankets, nestled into a storage bin. This was as close to a cradle or crib as the Nowlings could get, and it was never thought down upon by other members here. At least there actually was something for her to stay in. Kurt hummed as he lifted Nina up onto his hip, bouncing her slightly as he poured a small bit of hot water from a banged up pot into a dirty, small sippy cup and handing it to Nina. The child eagerly took the object from him and raised it clumsily to her lips, almost dropping it. Kurt quickly set down the pan and held out his hand so if the cup dropped, it's cap wouldn't come flying off, as it was known to do if coming into contact with the ground. Nina caught it, though, and happily slurped on it's contents. Most mothers would be horrified that a baby was drinking water, but what else were the Nowlings to do? They didn't have any other options.

Kurt lifted the flap to the off-brown tent and straightened, bouncing Nina a little as he walked down the small beaten path to the river, where they would sit and listen to the younger kids splash gleefully in the water. Kurt could never see the children, and Nina was a bit of a cuddle monster, so her face was always buried in Kurt's neck after she finished her water. Kurt would run his fingers soothingly down Nina's tiny wings, her feathers soft as down and extremely fluffy, unlike his, which were sleek and smooth.

Despite popular belief, angel wings could come in a whole variety of colors; white, black, brown, tan, gray, beige, cream, and copper-ish red colors. Sometimes blond angels could have an almost yellowish gold color to theirs as well. Nina's were the color of caramel to match her small tufts of brownish-blonde hair on top of her tiny head. Kurt's actually were a soft dove gray, with white tips like a pigeon and white closest to his back. The gray was barely noticeable unless close up, or so he'd been told. Really, all Kurt knew was that his were gray, and his mother's were white, as he could know both from memory and the small feather on a chord around his throat.

Kurt fingered this feather thoughtfuly as he tightened his hold on Nina. The baby was starting to squirm and whine, which could only mean one thing.

"Sylvie, Nina's my warning bell that you're there, and I can hear you. Stop trying to sneak up on me."

"Damn," Came a loud, clear female voice, then the sound of a person plunking themselves into the sand next to him. "Thought for sure I had you this time. You were totally zoning." Kurt rolled his eyes at the girl and threw a handful of sand at her playfully. She laughed, nudging his knee with her big toe in response.

Sylvie Madastra was Kurt's only friend. Gorgeous Sylvie was the most kind and brave hearted person Kurt knew. She was just as stubborn and head-strong as he was, which made them a perfect pair, and extremely non-judgemental. Sylvie didn't treat Kurt like he was made of glass just because he couldn't see, since she was flawed, too. Sylvie was one of the first people to get Kurt to talk to them when he first got to camp. Sylvie had rudely asked him why he had bandages on his eyes, and he had replied honestly; I made myself blind. Instead of being horrified, Sylvie had just nodded, then realized he couldn't see her nod and hummed knowingly. Sylvie had dyslexia and turrets, so she was used to being called weird, too. Sadly, Sylvie couldn't come visit him often, being as she was a bit higher up on the ladder than himself.

After all, Sylvie was the only daughter of Mrs. LeVae's sister, Lea. She kind of was top dog around here.

"Hey, I'm going flying. Wanna come?" Sylvie goaded, poking Kurt in the arm. Kurt raised a perfect eyebrow at her before gesturing to Nina, who was snoozing against his chest calmly, totally knocked out. He heard Sylvie sigh, before she rose to her feet.

"Fine then. I'm going exploring, I'll be back soon. Tell Mama Dearest I went out looking for lavender if she questions." Kurt waved a hand in dismissal at her, used to her crazy excuses for not being around. Sylvie knew the rules of their trade; she would try to stay safe and away from the humans if Kurt would cover for her when she explored. Resting back onto his side, Kurt simply basked in the warm spring sun as he curled around a sleeping Nina, hearing Sylvie take off. Napping was a general must for Kurt when he came to the lake; the sand was absurdly warm, and it was the only place where the sun hit just enough through the trees to create a soft glow around the area. Nobody bothered Kurt where he was; then they'd have to put up with both Kristy going all momma-bear on them, as well as Mrs. Nowling, since Nina was her pride and joy. Letting his eyes close, Kurt listened to the quiet flapping of Sylvie's wings as he fell asleep.

_The liquid smelled positively rancid as Kurt pulled the cap off, wrinkling his nose as the scent wafted up to him. The substance inside the small green bottle was a thick milky white, and Kurt sloshed it around experimentally. He wasn't positive his plan would even work, let alone the product itself. So, of course, he had to test it. What kind of person would be be if he didn't? Taking a the wand out of the bottle, he ran it across his piece of black construction paper, watching as the liquid hardened, blowing on it a bit before it looked dry enough. Dragging his pinky across the line, he pulled his finger away and held it to his face, eyes squinted as he tried to see if it left a mark; it had not._

_ God, this is the coward's way out, he thinks to himself, lifting the bottle into his hands. White-Out? This is basically just abuse of office products. He could feel dead business men rolling around in their graves as he spoke. _

_ "Come on, Kurt; you can do this. You have to do this. There's no other way to get this done, at least without more severe bodily harm." Kurt steeled himself, raising the bottle into the air and tipping it a little to it's side. Against what his body was telling him, he slowly opened his eyes, watching as the liquefied paper came fast towards him, as if in slow motion-_

"Kurt! Kurt! Please, anybody! Emergency, emergency! Code Gold, Code Gold!"

Kurt lunged upwards, his body covered in sweat and his breathing harsh. Nina was also disturbed by the loud noise as well, and her face fell as she began to cry loudly. Kurt picked Nina up into his arms and hushed her slightly, his eyes wide as he watched a terrified-looking Sylvie run through the lake and towards him and the other angels, who were all deadly silent and on their feet as well. The girl's face was covered in tears and she sobbed, her clothing ripped from the rose bushes and bramble thickets across the water, her skin scratched and bleeding. She was breathing harshly as she fell to her knees, sobbing into the sand.

"Code Gold! C-code Gold!"

Everyone was frozen. It was as if hell had frozen over below zero, and everyone's feet had frozen to the floor. Nobody moved, nobody spoke, everyone just stared at the hysterical teenage girl in the sand, too afraid to move. The only sound was the running of the creek water across the river bottom, Sylvie's harsh breath and Nina's wails through the thick air. The tension and fear was practically palpable in the atmosphere, and it seemed as if you could cut through the air with a knife just like you would a slice of cheese. Nobody wanted to say anything, because then it'd be real. Then the reality would finally set it.

Code Gold.

Humans were here.

**Anyone guess how Kurt went blind? Get it right and you'll get a shout-out next chapter.**

**Review for feedback. Thank you all.**

** ~Elsie**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey, guys! Sorry for the late update. Also, thank you to all reviewers that told me about the mistake last chapter; It has been noted. **

** Sadly, nobody got the question right. You kind of have to read between the lines and use your imagination. ;)**

** IMPORTANT. PLEASE READ. I'm actually changing my pen name. This is still goldenmiracles1914. Yes, this is still goldenmiracles1914. I just am now Thunderstorm Kick Drum. Thanks again. :)**

** Warning: Language in this chapter.**

** ~Elsie**

** Disclaimer: I don't own Glee.**

_Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep-_

A caramel-colored hand reaches out from on the bed and slaps the snooze button. The hand looks like a zombie popping out of a grave in one of those horror movies, as you can see no other limbs. This, possibly, could be the seven huge, thick comforters at work, or it could be the round space heater buzzing on the wood floor next to the dresser. Or it could be both.

Blaine Anderson was known as a child for getting heat strokes. He _hated_ anything warm with a burning passion, and loved the winter and snow, to a point where he'd sneak down the hall to the study, open the window, and climb onto the lowest portion of the roof in shorts, just to feel the ice whip against his skin. But once a year, a whole week in May, he can feel the chills set in. His bones feel hollow and he feels like he can barely breathe. His heart is stabbed through with icicles, acting like sewing needles to join pieces of a broken heart the where they don't fit. He feels like a toddler putting together a 2,000 piece puzzle, with people expecting him to finish it in a certain amount of time and know where the pieces belong. And so, he piles every blanket he can find in his residence onto his bed and burrows beneath it, blocking out the loud words not-so-subtly intended for him to hear through the door, yet also trapping himself in his vast cocoon.

He can hear the soft knock on his door, but just barely. He sucks in a deep breath, hearing his ribs crack a bit, and waits for what happens next. The legs on the outside of the door shift restlessly from foot to foot, and are clearly socked, which crosses out a few options as to who it could be. He sticks an ear and his nose out of the blanket, shivering at the chilly temperature and listens closer. Soft, slightly wheezing breathing resonates through his room, and Blaine closes his eyes. This is the final test.

He lets out the breath when he hears a key click into the lock of his door. The wooden slab creaks slightly as it's pushed open, and he can hear the socked feet step over the small piles of clothes on his floor, and shuffle across his slightly damp carpet from when he dropped his towel on it after his shower. The blankets behind him are slowly lifted up, and a little body settles itself behind him. The socked feet tangle with his own, and a small, soft hand brushes up his back, over his side and down his chest, to hold his hand tightly to his heart. Blaine squeezes that hand slightly as the person behind him breathed in and out. Time dragged on, neither of them speaking, just a soft, slightly nailed thumb rubbing against the pad of another. The air underneath the blankets is continually getting hotter, as now there are two breaths being released together in place of one.

"I've been guarding the thermostate like always," A soft voice whispers. Blaine nods, taking the hand in his own and dragging it up his chest and to his lips, kissing the back softly.

"I figured you would. I didn't ask you to, you know."

"I know," came the gentle reply, the person's breath fanning across his neck, making him shiver. The silence continued after that, the rising and falling of two chests the only movements. The air felt heavy, like drops of liquid iron were laced into every molecule of oxygen. The taste of metal in the air was almost potent.

Blaine's voice was almost inaudible when he spoke.

"Did he try to turn it down?"

The slow nod against his shoulder blades was enough of an answer.

Blaine closes his eyes again, feeling the small tear in the corner of his left eye finally dribble down his cheek and onto his pillow, pooling around his neck before being absorbed into his shirt. His shoulders shake slightly, and he moves his other hand that is not occupied up to his face, sobbing silently into his palm.

It's May 14th. Everything bad in Blaine's life seemed to fall onto this date. Everything, without fail.

Breaking his new guitar.

Being sent to the office and being suspended by a homophobic teacher who caught him letting the boy behind him copy his notes for Pre-Algebra.

Breaking his arm in gym in the sixth grade from being rammed into during the softball unit. On purpose.

Not getting to go to his school's honors choir conference because he lost his voice.

Watching the slave who does his laundry get taken to the auction.

Watching the slave who fixes the cars get taken to the auction.

Watching the slave who cooks for them get taken to the auction. Three years in a row.

Watching his own mother being taken to the auction.

May 14th. The last day he ever saw Jasmine. The last day he saw her face until, just last year, he was in the hospital after being beat up at the Sadie Hawkins dance (coincidentally falling onto May 14th) and finding the news paper from the day he was assaulted. The last day he saw her face until it appeared in the obituary for lost slaves.

It turns out she was just over in the town next to him, working for an elderly couple who hated grocery shopping. An easy half an hour bike ride.

This was also the day he stopped believing in God.

Every year since then, his father has gone out of his way to fire the slave he'd just gotten closest to over the year. This was something he knew without fail would happen. His dad would even pull him out of school for that one week with some stupid excuse like "his cousin's getting married," "his aunt is sick", or "his grandmother is in town, and he needs to spend time with her." This, of course, showed just how much of a sick bastard Richard Anderson really was. How he was not quite the family man everyone made the famous senator out to be.

He knew this year it would be Chloe, the twenty-something year old gardener he helped out sometimes.

"Who was it?"

He received no response.

He inhaled a shaky breath. He could feel the tears welling up, and tried to quench them persistently. He attempted to center himself, tried to focus on one thing and one thing only. It was easy when he felt the solid, pounding heart beating against his back. The one heart he knew would never leave him. The one heart that _couldn't_ leave him.

Adriane Anderson was what his parents had intended to be the solution baby. Like, _hey, we already had a fuck-up child, let's fix this problem. Then we can dote on them and make the first child feel like shit. _The one thing they hadn't counted on was Adriane looking up to her older brother to the point of borderline worship.

When Adriane was a baby, she had no one. Sure, when their mother would have friends over, she'd fawn over and coo at the adorable, pink-cheeked baby, but beside that, Adriane recieved no maternal love. Blaine remembers being almost six years old and sneaking into the nursery in the middle of the night, raising himself onto the bars of the pink crib and standing on his tip-toes, craning his neck to see over the edge. The baby was whining on the inside, her diaper obviously filled, as she squirmed uncomfortably in hunger. Kelly Anderson hadn't wanted to take the chance of hiring another angel-nanny, so she decided to do it herself. This was quickly given up when she had to change her first diaper.

So Blaine, at five-bordering-on-six, hopped down from the bars, walked down the stairs, and grabbed a chair and a can of baby formula out of the cabinet. He stirred together some hot water and the formula before hopping back down and putting the chair back in place, holding his finger over the teet of the bottle and shaking it. He then proceeded to walk back into the nursery and hoist himself into the crib, which creaked under his weight. He picked up the six month old, his hand under her head, and lowered her gently into his lap, and offering the bottle to her mouth. The baby latched on gratefully. It went that like that ever since.

"Common'. I overheard him earlier talking to mom about how if you aren't awake by seven, which is in ten minutes, he was going to come up here. We both know you don't need that right now," Adriane replied, resting her head against his arm at an absurd angle. Her neck cracked as she did so.

"Addi, that's gross. Don't do that. It'll dis-align your spine and give you arthritis. And I will _not _be taking care of your ass when you're old, and I'm still young and beautiful," Blaine jokes, turning over and poking her in the ribs. He sniffed slightly, his swollen and blurry eyes taking in the outline of his sister. Adriane smiled slightly in the dark, but her brother couldn't see her.

"Get up, get up! Up, you slug-a-bed!" She shoved at his shoulder half-heartedly, making a face at him. He snorted; only Adriane would allude to Romeo and Juliet. Only Adriane.

"Alright, I'm up. Don't get your knickers in a twist," he muttered, throwing the blankets off of both of them. Adriane was the first to get out of bed, raising on her tip toes and stretching her arms to the sky like a cat.

In looks, Adriane and Blaine were dead opposites. Blaine looked like his mother; crazy, unruly black curls and olive skin, with hazel eyes. Adriane got most of her looks from their father. She had tumbles of cornsilk-blonde hair that ran down her waist, flawlessly pale skin and the lightest of crystal blue eyes. The only similarities were their unnaturally small statures and the curls. Blaine almost wishes he had Adriane's face full of freckles; they give her personality. Neither of their parents have them.

He took a moment to take in her attire. It didn't surprise him at all; the outfit was so _Adriane._ It was a huge Dalton Academy Fencing Squad tee-shirt she had lifted off of Blaine, mismatched neon knee-high toe socks with holes running through them. Her mutli-colored nail polish was chipped in places, "Crackle!" paint on only the first two nails on her right hand and her pinky on the other, obviously done purposely. Her hair was in a low, extremely messy bun, and she pushed her bangs out of her face stubbornly as she turned to look at him. Blaine smiled sadly; he didn't want to admit it, but she was getting older. She used to be cute, of course, but now she was seriously beautiful. He wasn't looking forward to the death threats he'd have to dole out on her behalf.

"Up! Damn you, you incompetent fool! Up! The kitchen needs cleaning! Up!"

Blaine and Adriane looked at one another sullenly, standing at the top of the stairs and peering down the landing. Kelly Anderson was there, in a pink Dolce & Gabana sundress and yellow Gucci heels, with her little hands thrown in the air, yelling at a small, child-aged angel with startling red hair. He shook slightly, fingering his small blue shirt with nervous, dirty fingers. He had no shoes, so it was obvious he was new. He was sprawled out on the floor, crawling away from her feet before scrambling upright. Now standing, he appeared to be about the age of seven, maybe a small eight. He kept his head down, his eyes glued to the marble tiles under his muddy toes.

"Yes ma'am, right away ma'am," He whispered, folding his hands behind his back, the picture of obedience. If you hadn't known Kelly Anderson, you'd think there was absolutely no reason for her hand to be descending upon his cheek with a sickening _snap!_ You'd wonder what he had done that deserved the blood pooling on the balls of his cheeks, the tears in his eyes, the handprint across his face.

But Blaine knew Kelly well.

Kelly Anderson didn't need a reason to punish.

"Away! The cleaning supplies are in the closet upstairs. Go strictly to your destination, no wandering. If I find you touched anything, anything at all, besides cleaning products, I will take a whip to your back so hard the odds of you laying down again with be miniscule. Get out of my sight!" She kicked his foot slightly, and Blaine watched him yelp quietly inside his mouth, his whole body quivering and he jogged quickly up the stairs. He ducked his head and kept running the tears finally falling down his face. He didn't notice Blaine reaching out a hand and grabbing his arm. Squeeking, he automatically fell to his knees, palms pressed together.

"Mercy! Dear, merciful Master, please-"

"Shhh," Blaine shushed, squatting down to his level and running a gentle thumb across his cheek. The boy sobbed for a few moments, before finally breaking down and launching himself at Blaine, wrapping his tiny arms around his chest as he stained Blaine's robe with tears. Blaine rubbed his back lightly, shushing him until his tears were simply hiccups. Once he calmed down, Blaine pulled back, hands gripping his biceps as he smiled at him. Snot was rolling out of his nose, and his freckled cheeks were wet, but he was still one of the most percious things Blaine's ever seen.

"What's your name, bud?" Blaine asked softly. Adriane watched quietly, smiling when the boy calmed down and walking off into the study. The boy's eyes darted to the floor, and he shuffled his feet for a minute before answering.

"Subject 185239-K27-"

"No no no, buddy," Blaine said, gripping his arms a little tighter. His heart broke when he saw the boy wince. "What's your name? What does your Momma call you?" Blaine was careful to say "does" instead of "did".

"T-Trevor..." He mumbled, running his arm across his face. Blaine tutted softly, pulling a small to-go package of tissues out of his pocket and running one across Trevor's face and arm.

"Well then, Trevor. Hi, I'm Blaine." Blaine smiled at him encouragingly. "I hear you need to find the janitor's closet, huh? Well, I have a friend that could show you." Blaine looked up, seeing Adriane walk out of the study with a tiny, five year out girl in a maid's costume, her mocha colored skin rich and her brown curls frizzy. "This is Ticiolla. She can show you the way. Right, Tee-tee?" Ticiolla nodded, holding out a hand to Trevor invitingly. Slowly, Trevor lifted his hand and placed it in TiCi's, holding it tightly as she guided him down the hallway. At the last second, Blaine jogged up the the two, stopping Trevor and placing the rainbow-colored pack of tissues into the pocket of his shorts, smiling. Trevor carefully smiled back.

"Adriane? Is your brother awake?" Blaine's head snapped up, watching Adriane's face darken as she glowered down the stairs in her mother's direction. Blaine ruffled Trevor's hair affectionately before standing and walking slowly down the stairs, feeling Adriane grip the back of his shirt tightly with her fingers.

"Ah, there he is!"

Blaine closed his eyes, sucking in a deep breath as he steadied himself before opening them again, gazing at Kelly Anderson, smiling her fake, trophie-wife smile and Richard Anderson, not even trying to mask his cruel smile. He was happy about Blaine's misery. Ecstatic. Euphoric, even.

"Good morning, doll," Kelly said, walking up to Blaine and resting her hands on his shoulder, pressing her pink, lipstick-ed mouth against his cheek, whispering against his skin. "What was that?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," He murmured back, swiftly pecking her on the cheek before walking over to the dinner table, picking up his glass of orange juice and downing it, the taste bitter on his tongue. This didn't surprise him. Everything is bitter on May 14th.

"Woah woah, in a hurry, son?" Richard asked, his lips turned up in a sly smirk. Blaine gritted his teeth together in aggravation.

"Hurry? I haven't the slightest clue what you're talking about..." He trailed off, his fingers on his pant leg clenching and unclenching. Richard's smile hardened, his eyes like iron. He leaned forward, leaning against the table. Blaine tried his hardest to hold himself still and resist the urge to retreat and pull back.

"Really? See, you can play that game with your mother, but I'm nowhere near as daft and can see right through your facade. So knock it off."

"Did you need me for something?" Blaine asked abruptly, watching his father. Richard Anderson smiled back at him, like he knew something Blaine didn't.

"Ah, yes. I was going to tell you later, but I guess I'll say it now." Richard leaned back in his chair, lighting a cigar and puffing on it. Kelly wrinkled her nose in distaste from where she stood next to Adriane in the doorway, tutting her about her clothing choices, oblivious to the fact that Adriane totally wasn't listening.

"What would you say to a family camping trip?"

The whole room froze.

There was silence. A thick, pregnant silence that engulfed the atmosphere and smoldered like fire. Blaine's eyebrows rose, Richard smiled that same cruel smile, and Kelly faked being overjoyed about the idea. Adriane just looked pissed.

"What the hell? Family? Is that what you call this unit we live it? More like the two of you, off in LaLaLand, and then Blaine and I. Two families." Adriane crossed her arm, deciding it was time to put her input it. Richard shot her a deadly look.

"No one asked your opinion, Arriana."

"_It's Adriane!" _She shrieked, throwing her arms into the air. _"Adriane! You fucking asshole, you don't even know my name!"_

"That is enough, Adriane!" Kelly hissed, grabbing her daughter's arm. Adriane shrugged her off, her gaze like glass shards. It was clear she'd finally blown her top.

"Oh yeah, mother? What's my birthday? What's my middle name? What's my favorite color? What grade do I have in english? Huh?"

"Honey, your birthday's February 12th, your middle name's Marie, your favorite color's pink and you have an A, of course!" Kelly looked flustered at the thought. Adriane's shoulders dropped, and she shook her head in defeat.

"No-"

"October 2nd, Kennedy-Grace, apricot, and a B+ because your teacher's a batty old woman and disagreed with you on your persuasive essay last week," Blaine replied simply, holding Adriane's gaze. Adriane shot him a grateful look.

"You don't have a say in the matter! It doesn't matter what your mother knows or doesn't know! This isn't the Spanish Inquisition!" Richard yelled, growling at his children. They both crossed their arms defiantly. Richard puffed out through his nose, taking his glasses off and pinching his temples, breathing shallow. His voice was cracking when he spoke again.

"You will go camping, and you will enjoy yourselves, do you hear me? Now, go get packed; we leave for the LeVae forest at three."

**No Klaine meeting yet, but trust me, it's coming. **

** Please review!**

** ~Elsie**


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